


6 Sins

by mydrunkjoey



Category: Football RPF
Genre: AU, Borussia Dortmund, M/M, just some middle aged folks falling in love in a church - nbd, kluchel, set in an AU where they're both single and not even coaches probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 20:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4450508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydrunkjoey/pseuds/mydrunkjoey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas hadn't been to church in twelve years, and the day he finally decided to return, he committed six sins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	6 Sins

     Thomas hadn't been to church in twelve years, and the day he finally decided to return, he committed six sins. The first sin was an innocent lie, but a sin nonetheless.

 

     The lady at the door, her name already slipping from his mind, had offered him a pamphlet and asked him some questions. (It was to be friendly, he had assumed, although the way her eyelashes fell straight to his lips seemed a bit suspicious to say the least.) He had been honest with all of them except for the last bit. “Are you married,” she had asked, eyes a little too wide and smile a little too eager, so Thomas nodded. He lied about his imaginary wife and their imaginary two story house and imaginary kids, and the lady at the door asked no further questions.

 

     The second sin wasn't entirely a sin, not in Thomas' point of view. There was an elderly man with a bowtie and a brimming bald head. Although the sheer amount of light bouncing off his hairless scalp had already begun to tick Thomas off, it was the homophobic preaching that did it. He didn't do anything particularly horrifying, but he had to stand next to the fellow, and he had ended up “accidentally” spilling a can of coke onto the man's fancy shirt. Thomas apologized at least.

 

     The next few sins were all connected and in Thomas' defence, they weren't really his fault to begin with.

 

     He sat near the front, and his eyes were fixated for the first fifteen minutes. It wasn't a small feat, fifteen minutes of complete focus and attention to an elderly man in monochromatic garb, it really wasn't. But the priest began to reiterate the same thing three times over, and Thomas' eyes began to wander, settling pretty quick on another man, quite possibly around Thomas' age, on the bench across the walkway. This man, spectacled, messy haired, and the owner of an equally messy beard, had been committing an even bigger feat, still focused on the priest and smiling nonetheless.

 

     Two things crossed Thomas' mind at the time, the first being: “this man must go to church often, considering how relaxed and comfortable he looks in his seat,” and the latter being: “if I stare long enough, I wonder if he'll turn.” He hadn't begun his immature and irresponsible solo staring contest for any sinful personal gain, he had done so out of mere curiosity. Curiosity wasn't a sin.

 

     He spent four minutes, darting his eyes back to the other man, then back to the priest with an ever believable nod, and then back to the other man. Towards the fifth minute, the scraggly man actually looked back. But of course, it had taken Thomas by surprise, and he jerked his head back, knocked his neck against the back of the bench, and cursed under his lips. (“Goddammit,” was his third sin.)

 

     Mr. Spectacles met his gaze once more, this time with an even wider grin, all teeth and very little lip. Thomas did the same, toothy smile, and even less lip.

 

     The sermon went on for another thirty minutes with Thomas and this mystery man exchanging glances – mere innocent glances paired with the occasional smile. Although the both of them had no clue as to what was so funny, the last half hour sailed faster than the minutes before it.

 

     The lady from the door then stepped up to the stage, announced a little socializing party in the event hall downstairs, and every child in the room seemed to cheer at “there will be free food,” and fewer cheered at “there will be music,” and Thomas had never sympathized more with kids than he did then. He had managed to slip away from said lady, but he hadn't managed to slip away from the smiling man. (Though to be fair, he hadn't been trying to avoid the other man, not even the slightest.)

 

     “You're new here,” Mr. Spectacles had inquired, fingers lax in his pockets and crows feet brimming by his eyes. Thomas folded his arms over his chest, a habit he was used to when faced with nameless folk, and cocked his head to the left.  
     “That obvious?”  
     “A little.” As a child squeezed in between their legs, Thomas gestured towards the stairs and/or the crowd, lured by the smell of food and the bitter sweetness of societal pressures.

 

     There wasn't much food really, most of it was chips, boxed juices, and the obligatory homemade lasagna, in which by the time Thomas and Mr. Spectacles got there, was a layer of burnt crust. They both settled on boxed juices, Thomas with orange and Mr. Spectacles with apple.

 

     The crowd wasn't very organized, and ten minutes into being interrupted by people trying to pass in between them, Mr. Spectacles lightly gripped his elbow and they slipped away (Thomas had become rather good at that) to an empty room half painted and smelling strongly of citrus air fresheners.

 

     “You brought me to a lovely place,” he crooned, lips curling up in intrigue. The other man mirrored his expression as expected, and he shrugged.  
     “I'm quite the romantic.” And here is where Thomas committed his fourth sin, because his cheeks burned ever so lightly, and he laughed ever so genuinely, and this was a crush. This was infatuation wrapped up in a delicate and poorly hidden lovesick smile.  
     “Right,” Thomas scoffed. He sipped the juice box, eyes focused on the straw and how large his fingers were. He felt awfully like a child again, the crush, the juice box, the smell of air freshener. Thomas peered up, lips still gently set around the straw as Mr. Spectacles eyed him back. Lowering the juice box, he folded his arms over his chest once more, juice box held up against the opposite arm. “What's your name?”  
     “Jürgen. And you?”  
     “Thomas.”  
     “Thomas, simple and easy to nickname,” Jürgen murmured. He took two steps closer, paused, and then two steps more until Thomas was a good two feet away. Not too close, not too far.  
     “Tommy and Tom, there isn't much more to say,” he retorted. Jürgen pursed his lips, took another generous sip of his apple juice, and with his free hand, waved his index finger.  
     “Thombelina!” As if Thumbelina wasn't a tiny little fantastical girl.  
     “That's even longer than my actual name, Jürgen.” His name flew comfortably with everything else, and Thomas found himself pleased by the shape of the man's name, that and the way Jürgen had reacted to it. (Happy, cheeky, an energetic combination of both.)  
     “Doesn't matter. If it's not any trouble for you, I'm fine with putting in the effort to calling you Thombelina, Thomas.” Thomas' reaction was equal to that of Jürgen's.

 

     In ten minutes, Thomas and Jürgen were able to piece together quite a few similarities between them. One of them being that they were massive football fans, both having deep connections to Mainz and Dortmund, as well as deep rivalries with Bayern Munich. Everything else, such as being horrible morning people and preferring their eggs sunny side up came irrelevant by the time Jürgen spoke about his beliefs.  
     “I go to church to love and to pray. I believe in love and in inexplainable forces that do good, but I also believe that the holy books are flawed. I mean, they are written by us, by humans, and we are flawed. What I take from these books are not the damning of these supposed sins, sins of eating certain animals or, or wearing certain materials, or befriending prostitutes, or being in love with someone of the same gender-- but the rejoicing of love. Of love above all things and the power that has, it's simple really. My beliefs mirror every other religion's beliefs, and it's simple.” Jürgen had this way of speaking that moved people. Although Thomas was alone, and although Thomas was already biased with his obvious admiration and desire for the quirky man in front of him, he felt it. Jürgen had already been special from the start, but Thomas was quickly feeling as if their meeting was of fate, of miracles, and the work of love. (A sappy thought, but an honest one regardless.)  
     “Maybe I say all this because I still want to go to church, but I also want to kiss men,” Jürgen added, and Thomas gripped his juice box so hard his straw popped off. He would've tried to play it cool, but Jürgen didn't seem to be doing that with the very obvious way he was watching Thomas' lips. So he decided against laughing, against slipping away like he was so used to, against shoving and acting out. Instead, Thomas leaned back against the wall, arms relaxed over his chest, and smiled.  
     “I guess we have that in common too.”

 

     Clearly, his fifth sin was kissing Jürgen.

 

     The juice boxes littered the floor, and the citrus smell faded away to cheap cologne and minty shampoo. Thomas threaded his long arms around Jürgen's neck, kissed the edges of Jürgen's lips, and laughed at how ticklish it felt to have Jürgen's beard against his collarbone. With his sweater and the other man's jumper pressed tight and rough against each other, Thomas gripped Jürgen's hair a little harder, and kissed again, and again, and again. (Open-mouthed, and expectant of beard burn.)

 

     Fifteen minutes of making out at 41 years old was an awful lot for Thomas, and he was pretty sure that the same could be said about Jürgen. But fifteen minutes was all they could get before the lady from the door and her voice came bellowing down the hall, announcing that the church would close in another ten minutes. (Their go to position of keeping away from suspicion wasn't to pull away, but pull each other tighter together and slip behind the door. It worked that time at least.)

 

     “So,” Thomas started, arms still long and folded around Jürgen's neck, “we should probably leave before we're locked here.”  
     “We should,” Jürgen mumbled into Thomas' cheek. Shifting back, he met Thomas' gaze with that cheeky grin he wore so well. “But we have ten minutes still.” A few moments ago, Thomas had thought about how he was rather immature, and rather childish for holding a staring contest. But he was about to break that record, and with a sly smile, Thomas slid his palms down Jürgen's chest, and hooked a hand into the other's.  
     “Let's play seven minutes in heaven,” Thomas whispered, mouth hovering over Jürgen's, who soon after getting the gist, whistled.  
     “I'll probably be in heaven when the seven minutes are up.”

 

     And in those seven minutes, Thomas committed his sixth sin.

**Author's Note:**

> if you read this, i'd just like to say that i never intended to ship these two to the point that i would write a fic about them-- but it happened. and if you read this before i posted it, you were probably part of the few that FUELLED my desire to write about this ship. 
> 
> xo


End file.
